Civil War?
by sych77
Summary: Unnervingly frequent murders? A mass kidnapping? Charles underpressure? Logan glowering? ok well the last one's no call for concern, but it looks like we're approaching a war that will be anything but 'civil'... R&R to recieve... er, a warm fuzzy feeling?
1. In the Beginning

_Hi there! I started this a while ago, and decided I should probably finish it. To do so, I am restarting! A big thanks to all those who reviewed the first take. And, of course, I don't own X-Men in anyway. So, without further ado, I introduce; _

CIVIL WAR?

**Chapter One: In the Beginning**

The lunchroom was curiously quiet. Students that had quite carelessly chattered through an irate principal's lecture didn't dare to shuffle of whisper. They stayed still on the colourless benches, not even seeming to breath. _This is it. They're going to kill us. We're going to die._ Even their eyes, wide with fear, were settled, focused.

One man commanded their attention.

His comrades guarded the exits, standing with dark rifles across their bodies in a way that meant bringing them to aim would be sickeningly easy. They were sombre in black. Like them, he wore black clothing with straps which housed various items of intimidating weaponry. His face was covered by a black, plain baseball cap which was pulled down, nearly to his nose. Unlike the others, his face was free of cammo paint, but all she could see was the cruel curve of his lips and a rounded jaw-line rough with stuble.

Bryony hunkered down. _This can not be happening_, she prayed, _Oh Gods, please don't let it be happening._ It had to be a nightmare, or some sick joke; anything. It just couldn't be true. It couldn't be.

"You know why we are here," the man said, cleaning his fingernails on the blade of a survival knife. "There is no cause for alarm. This is for your own safety. An evacuation of the school." He lowered the hand with knife, now dangling it carelessly between two fingers, and looked at the students from below the cap brim. "You will walk calmly to the doors, and from there my colleagues will direct you as to where to go."

_It's not true. We're not going anywhere._

A seventeen year old stood up. Bryony recognized him instantly; Jim, who refused to recognize authority in any form and (so the rumours went) put a lot of energy into pulling it to pieces. He wore jeans torn at the knees adorned with a rusting skate chain, and unwashed t-shirt and a derisive expression. His hair was long, limp and greasy. "Fuck that," he snorted, looking at his buddies for support, "We ain't going nowhere."

Without replying, the leader threw the knife at him with frightening fluidity. It sheathed itself hilt-deep in the skate-boy's throat, creating a flow of blood from the fresh wound. The foul-mouthed teen fell to the floor, retched on the blood seeping into his mouth as his eyes rolled up in shock, and then was still.

Around him, students drew away en mass. They looked with fear at the black-clad man, to their fallen classmate, and back again to the man who had killed him. He raised a pale hand to the table nearest the door. The people sitting there flinched, expecting another knife to come fling out of nowhere. "Go," he ordered. The other men moved towards the adolcescents, roughly forcing them to obey. "The mutant problem has gone of for too long," he added in a low whisper.

Gradually the lunchroom emptied, a shocked, horrified silence still reigning over all. _They can't do this! _Anger rippled through her, but when the time came Bryony followed the others just as meekly. There was nothing she could do against armed guards, and she lacked the courage to be a martyr.

At the doorway, Bryony's hands were clasped behind her back and forcibly bound with some kind of plastic packaging strip before she could even register what was going on. _Hey! _She wanted to shout, cry, scream, but she didn't dare break the silence. It was a living force now. Her eyes grew hot, but she allowed the men to finish tying her hands and push her in the direction of a bus that was sitting – illegally parked, as an aside – in the courtyard.

As she made her way across the concrete, black men in two lines to either side of her, she heard a commotion behind her. _Something's happening. Someone's rebelling!_ A flicker of hope ignited within her. Could she do something too? Then came the sound of a meaty thump, and a voice blunted by years of nicotine said "let that be a lesson to all of you."

The bus was quite new, but plain. It wouldn't attract any undue attention. Bryony went to the first empty seat from the back, and sat down uncomfortably near the window. With her hands stuck in near the small of her back and her elbows stuck out she knew sleep wouldn't be an option. Her friend Maria sat down beside her, her mascara running with tears.

Bryony caught a glimpse of a boy with a split lip and blackened eye. An entire side of his face was purple and bleeding heavily, contrasting completely with the unscathed white of the other side. _Did they do that to him? How could they? There's so much damage!_ She averted her gaze, feeling sick, and closed her eyes.

A gentle hiss barely registered in her ears, and her eyelids flickered only momentarily as the gas filled the bus. The students' felt their brain patterns shift into that of sleep, their eyes cementing shut. Maria's head dropped awkwardly onto her friend's shoulder and the black makeup stained the light-coloured shirt Bryony had been wearing.

By the time the engine chugged into life and the black men with gas masks stood in the aisle, Bryony was completely unconscious and blissfully ignorant of what she was heading to.

It was a far cry from the dubious school-lunch meatloaf the future had previously promised.

* * *

Charles Xavier frowned in impatience as he waited for someone to answer the phone. He could have simply dipped directly into the other man's mind, but here he was, doing the polite thing, and nobody would answer the phone. It was so incredibly irritating. _I'll have to if no one answers the phone. This is too important to waste time about._

An annoyed female voice finally broke the never-ending ringing. "What?"

"This is Professor Charles Xavier calling for Mathew Ridgemore. I would like to talk to him immediately."

The nasal voice huffed irritably. "Hold the line."

_No respect. The people are letting technology replace their humanity_. Xaiver sighed, massaging his temples for the umpteenth time that day. He knew he'd been working too hard, but he was only the one who could do this. As much as he trusted his treasured X-Men, he did not want to burden them with this knowledge unless he had something concrete.

"This is Matthew Ridgemore."

"Matthew, it's Charles Xavier. I trust you remember me?"

"Professor! Of course! To what do I owe the honour of your phone call?"

"A matter most grave, I fear. Matthew, you are a journalist. I trust you are kept up to date with current events, even those which aren't published in the newspapers?"

Xavier could feel as his ex-student began to feel apprehensive.

"What do you want to know?"

"Has there been a homicide in Marksburrow?"

He heard the clicking of keys and waited apprehensively, tension pouring through his blood.

"Nothing reported. But I can get into the police files if you want me to…"

"Do it," Xavier said. He shouldn't be making his students prostitute their talents this way, but, he reminded himself, he had no choice. A few transgressions on the privacy part would only help in the long run.

"Yeah," said Matthew eventually. "a confirmed double homicide, with a missing relative. That's all they've got here. No names, nothing. I can't do anymore, sorry professor."

"That's alright, Matthew. Thank you for your help."

Xavier hung up heavily, gazing around his neat office despairingly. _It's true, God forbid. It's true._ He reached into a drawer of his desk and drew out a photo. It was grey-and-white, but had been done so for effect. It was not old. Three smiling faces looked up at him, bringing back memories from a far-off world.

He smoothed it and put it back, locking the three in his desk. _They're gone, Charles. This is all your fault._

_

* * *

_

_(Please Review! Even if all you have to say is "hi")_


	2. Distraction

**Chapter 2 – Distraction**

Scott looked at the photo on his bedside table. Every morning he did the same thing, blinking once at the ceiling as he woke. The next thing he saw would always be the photo. An angel stared back at him, auburn hair piled into a messy bun with a defiant, escaping curl emphasizing her slender neck. The sensual mouth he knew so well, open with laughter. The lively eyes, crinkled with laughter. And there, the source of the hilarity; Scott himself. He smiled sadly at it, remembering better times, and then got out of bed.

When he'd first discovered he was 'Cyclops', getting out of bed without blowing the roof off and waking the neighbours had been a bit of a mission. He'd had to wake up and quell the image to open his eyes before he had firmly placed his special glasses on his nose. Now he couldn't be bothered with the hassle, and slept with the visor on. Uncomfortable? Yes. Worth it? Maybe. He decided he could handle the sore necks it brought, rather than having a soggy bed every time it rained.

Scott quickly got changed and headed to the kitchen. He felt like an omelette today, and he was a man who liked his omelette like he liked everything else – without having to wait for it. Who, after all, could wait to taste egg, milk, salt, pepper, bacon and herbs? Heaven on Earth!

"Hey, Mister Summers," said a quiet voice.

He turned to see the young mutant Rogue raiding the fridge. From the looks of it, she'd just woken up. "Hi, Marie. Shouldn't you be in class?"

The girl smirked tiredly. "Shouldn't you be taking a class?"

"Touche," he replied, "but I have time off for being sick."

Rogue twisted the stalk of an apple she'd resigned to eating and threw it in the bin. Taking a crunching bite and speaking around its impeding presence, she said, "Oh yes, Mister Summers, and you do look dreadfully ill."

He mock-wielded a spatula at her threateningly. "I'll have you know I'm very sensitive about my looks, especially when I'm sick."

She shrugged, as if to say 'I tried', took another bite of apple and left him to concoct an omlette in relative peace.

But even silence couldn't help his mind rest. Xavier had said it was post-stress, a part of the grieving process – _(completely normal, Scott, nothing to be ashamed of) – _but Scott sincerely wished it would stop. The sudden melancholy was driving him mad. So where the _what-if_ scenarios that clouded his brain.

_She's dead. No amount of hindsight and mooning can bring her back. Honour her memory, remember her always, and move on._

He managed to get through cooking his omelette without thinking of her once. But this is only because he resorted to trying to remember every line of that god-awful Spongebob Squarepants movie he'd been forced to take the younger mutants to see. Ugh, it was horrible! Even just thinking about it gave him the shivers. By the time he finished eating the said omelette and cleaning up the mess he'd made, Scott was back into mooning mode.

_Enough is enough. I have to see the Professor._

Xavier was discussing light refractions with his physics class when he sensed Scott coming towards them. Despair and confusion could hardly be missed. Already distracted beyond compare and feeling he was about to become more so, he dismissed his class and told them to do some prep outside.

Scott saw the class leaving, and knocked on the wooden door.

"Come on in, Scott."

He sat opposite his paternal mentor, expecting to see the knowing twinkle in those far-seeing eyes. It was there, but muted, dull with sadness. Scott straightened uncomfortably, then decided to get it out. Saying this was hard. Ever since he'd first been taken into Xavier's ward he'd never questioned as a father. But he had to now. "I'm going insane," he admitted, "I need your help, so I can stop feeling so wretched."

"You can't hurry grief, Scott," the Professor answered softly. Scott fancied he was talking from personal experience. "I know you've been hardest hit by this tragedy, but numbing the pain is not healthy, whether its done by a telepath or a bottle."

"I just can't stand it."

"You can," he said reassuringly, "And you will." He surveyed his melancholy surrogate-son and picked out what he needed to hear. "Jean wouldn't want you to forget her love so easily."

They talked for about half an hour longer, discussing at length various activities Scott could do to limit the time he had to think about his deceased beloved. The dreams, Xavier said, would be Scott's own way of honouring her memory. Though Xavier was as caring and concerned as he could ever want, Scott had a suspicion that the good Professor had something on his mind.

_No, _he thought, _Xavier doesn't keep secrets from us. If something was bothering him, he'd tell us._

Charles picked up on that thought, and listened to Scott leave his office with a feeling of guilt mingled with sorrow. Though it pained him to admit it, this was something the X-Men could not be a part of. Well, he couldn't risk them being a part of it yet.

Soon, he mused, they couldn't _not _be a part of it.

_Head... muzzy..._

Bryony slowly blinked eyelids that seemed as heavy and responsive as bricks. The chain of events began to trickle through her mind, punctuated by aching pain from strained shoulders and neck, from the way her swollen and sore tied wrists made her sit. She tried moving her arms, and the plastic restraint bit unmercifully into her delicate skin.

_What's going on?_

Around her, few of the students were still asleep. Most were in varying states of consciousness. Some stared fearfully at their surroundings as memory filled the blanks.

The surroundings had changed. No longer were they on the bus, but were seated against the walls of a large, unadorned hall. The black men must have carried them out, one by one. The middle of the hall was clear except for the dark, silent form of those men, the abductors, a sure reminder not to move or talk.

Bryony felt a weight on her shoulder. It was Maria's head. Somehow, the girl had managed to take up the same position here that she had on the bus. She was still in the depths of sleep, her face marked with black by her previous fears.

Swallowing, Bryony tried to get her vocal chords to work, wanting to ask what was going on. It was incredibly hard to break the silence. It was alive, oppressive, smothering. She swallowed, and tried again. Before any sound left her chapped lips, she choked it back.

"What's going on?"

The voice that spoke was not her own. It belonged to a sandy haired boy, Rob, who was sensible and the captain of the summer A cricket team. Well-known and liked by pupils and teachers alike, Rob was just the person who was needed to take control over the situation.

The nearest man turned towards him as if startled that someone would dare to speak, and glanced at his co-conspirators for an indication of what to do.

"Where have you taken us?"

The students shifted to see what was happening, listening intently. The man Rob had targeted was at a lost. Obviously he didn't know how he was supposed to respond. His comrades looked on equally as curious.

"No talking," he said finally.

"It's okay." The man in the black cap stepped out from the doorways shadows, intimidating and mocking. "The brave boy deserves an answer." He turned slowly to face Rob, every slow move radiating authority. "You and your school mates have been taken away from your homes to lessen the mutant threat. Those of you who are not mutants or sympathizers will be returned to your families. Those who are will remain until we are convinced of their harmlessness. As to where you are... that's classified information. You'll soon find out for yourself."

_Lessen the mutant threat?_

Voicing her thoughts, Rob asked scornfully, "And how will this lessen the mutant threat?"

"It will keep possible mutants in their place, where we can monitor their behaviour. Now, there will definitely be no more talking. You will be told what you need to now."

Rob refrained from asking any more questions. The students slumped against their respective walls, quiet but far from satisfied.


	3. Prank Call

Disclaimer:_ it's really quite obvious I don't own x-men, as this if FAN FICTION. FAN. F.A.N. that's right, I've never come CLOSE to claiming i own x-men. Besides, x-men was in existence probably before I was born. So yeah. Not mine. Ok this is probably the last time I'll write a disclaimer for this story because somehow I don't think I'll be buying the X-men rights anymore, and if I did, I wouldn't be writing FANfiction about it. I'd be making movies ((insert cheesy grin))_

A big thanks to the reviewers! Because there were such prompt responses - especially considering I haven't written anything in a very long time, here's another hit:

* * *

-**Chapter 3- Prank Call**

He leaned over the desk, staring intently at the computer screen and the open email it displayed. His brown eyes moved quickly as they read the small print. Then he fell heavily against the back of his chair, and put his hands to his face. These were the neatly manicured hands of an accountant, and his face was weak-featured and topped with a receding mop of black hair which seemed to fit his occupation.

"Dead..." A painful whisper escaped his lips, still hidden behind his palms.

He took his left hand away from his face and used it to search through the messy desk for the phone. He located it when the wedding band tapped against the plastic, the sound standing out clearly from the previous rufflings of paper. Hauling it out of the mess, he pushed at a preset number and held the receiver tensely against his ear.

"_Hello?"_

"Hi honey, it's me. Er, listen," he ran his right hand through his hair, pushing the sweat beading on his brow back. "I might be a little late home tonight. Something's come up. But I want you to be very careful, okay?"

"_Why? What's happened?"_

"Nothing, just... take care of yourself."

"_Don't lie to me, Jimmy. What's going on?"_

His wife sounded close to tears, and although he knew the truth would be no comfort for her, he couldn't lie to her when she was so upset. "Suzan and Mathew Coombs ... they're dead..."

There was a gasp, then a sob, and then an odd choking sound that he knew had nothing to do with shock or grief. Then nothing. Silence from the other line.

"Katie?"

More silence.

"Katie, answer me!"

The line went dead. He knew better than to try to call again – there would be no answer.

"Oh God, I've got to get home." The whisper of desperation escaped his lips as he disconnected the call and started another.

"_911. Please state your emergency."_

Something cold snicked through the air to stop at the trembling skin of his neck. It was knife, unsheathed and terribly clean. He saw it gleam, the thin line of light reflecting in the screen of the computer monitor. He could hear the deep breathing of his attacker, smell the booze on his breath, feel the stubble against his ear.

"Put down the phone."

* * *

Logan sniffed at the bottle doubtfully.

"You sure this is drinkable?"

His question was directed at Bobby Drake, who had come down to raid the kitchen at midnight in nought but his boxers and found the older man desperately searching for something to drink. Bobby sighed, digging a hole in his bowl of chocolate ice-cream before replying.

"It's only Pepsi."

"I don't trust inferior brands." The bottle lingered near his mouth before he put it down, having drunken nothing. "Nah, it's coke or nothing. Are you sure you there's nothing else to drink?"

"Positive. Unless your feelings towards flavoured milk have changed."

Logan sighed, and decided to put his life on the line and try this 'Pepsi'.

"Surprised you didn't spontaneously combust?" Bobby asked, a slightly teasing tone to his voice.

Logan grumbled, "It's got a funny after-taste. I'll probably get liver poisoning by morning."

"Right. Carbonated water and sugar. Fear it."

Sudden and sharp, the phone rang shrilly, cutting through the mansion's general silence. It hung on the kitchen wall, dark navy in colour. Logan and Bobby exchanged looks.

Bobby shrugged, and scooped out some more ice-cream. "Are you going to answer it?"

Logan did, greeting the person on the line with a gruff, suspecting "'ello?"

"_Hello. Can I please speak to Charles Xavier?"_

"No. It's quarter past one. Charles is unable to talk to you." His tone held his irritation.

"_It's very important!"_

"So call back early tomorrow."

"_I need to talk to him now!"_

"Try his private phone number then."

"_He doesn't have one!"_

"Oh, now that's a pity."

"_Listen up, I need to talk to Charles Xavier right now. I'm aware of the time, damn it, do you think I'd be frantically calling in the middle of the freaking night if it wasn't very important?"_

Logan leant against the wall, turning away from his younger mutant audience. His unusual hair stopped the glow from the kitchen light reaching his face, highlighting the shadows on stubbled cheeks and under heavy brows. His facial expression showed he didn't appreciate being yelled at.

The truth was, of the very few people Logan respected, Charles was one. And the professor had been more strained than lately – he needed all the sleep he could get. Logan was not about to run around the mansion with the sole purpose of waking him because some paranoid nut-job had suffered a nightmare and wanted some comfort. Besides, his Pepsi could go flat. Who knew what sort of shelf life this stuff had?

"So give me a message, and I'll pass it on," he growled.

"_For fuck's sake, I need to talk to Charles, damn it! And I need to do so now! So put – him – ON!"_

Logan was about to reply with something equally impolite – living rough can educate a language – when he felt the soothing presence of Xavier's telepathy seeping into his mind. It felt... well, you could say it felt like a calm, cool sea-breeze through your mind. One could only tell it was Charles thoughts and not your own if this sea-breeze sensation was recognized and registered.

_It's okay, Logan, I'm up._

Oh yes, and the fact that he didn't speak in first person.

He snarled, an expression which fitted his face unusually well, and stormed out of the kitchen to find Charles, not caring to keep quiet. The thundering of his footsteps could be heard all over the mansion. A stunned Bobby Drake watched him go with a fair bit of curiosity, having heard only half of the exchange and not knowing of Charles' psychic intervention.

He shrugged, and casually froze the glass of chocolate milk next to him. It didn't taste exactly the same as the ice-cream he'd just polished off, but it was the next best thing.

* * *

_AN: next time, on a very special Civil War..._

_We catch up with Bryony again... Charles takes a phone call (surprise, who could it be?) ... we see an old friend (possibly in diguise) and... well... cool stuff happens. Trust me. Bring a friend._

_please review! _

_(Click the button below to feed the plot bunnies. For one review per chapter, you can feed one plot bunny for the duration of an entire story. Help make the world a better place, and start today)_


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